


And the Stars Blazed in the Night Sky...

by katrinajg



Series: Blue light blinking, red light glowing.. [2]
Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Blow Jobs, First Kiss, Frottage, Gen, M/M, Sequel, slightly less Dubious Consent than last time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-18
Updated: 2013-11-18
Packaged: 2018-01-01 23:19:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1049762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katrinajg/pseuds/katrinajg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to That Ain't a Protruding Hip...</p><p>Title's sappy, the story ain't, because they don't fucking working like that, okay? </p><p>Or How Michael got Talked into Helping Trevor Find and Steal a Pharmaceutical Truck for Momma Philips, Lester is Annoyingly Insightful and Tracey and Jimmy Tag Along for a Little Grand Theft Auto. Literally.<br/> <br/><i>'...Then she suddenly grabbed a handful of Michael's ass and he jumped, swearing. What the fuck?! He turned and Mrs. Philips was wearing a smirk, one that, frighteningly, looked exactly like Trevor's.</i></p><p>  <i>"A little coy, are we?"'</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	And the Stars Blazed in the Night Sky...

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to TheMoonAlwaysFalls and Yami'sgypsyYugi'sgirl for their beta work. It wouldn't be half as good without them.

The tantalizing smell of bacon and eggs filled the house and wafted under Tracey's door, insisting that she get out of bed and the cocoon of blankets she wrapped herself in. She rolled over and glanced at her clock, it was nearly ten. _Ugh._ She'd rather sleep longer after being out late last night. Before going out, Tracey had suffered the third degree from her dad that no she wasn't going to drink too much, do drugs or give any sexual favours. 

("At least, not for free," she said blithely. 

"Jesus Christ, Trace! You'd better be fucking kidding." 

She'd laughed. "Uh, yeah, I mean most guys are jerks anyways. I'm not about to get saddled with some moron when I'm on my way to being famous.")

However, she was starving, so she pulled herself out of bed and grabbed her robe. 

Downstairs in the kitchen it was only her dad. She was surprised that Jimmy wasn't up as well, knowing of his irrational love of bacon. Her mom wasn't there either but considering how jumpy her dad had been around Amanda lately it was probably for the best. She grabbed a mug from the cupboard and poured herself a cup of coffee before settling herself at the counter. 

"Mornin', Trace."

"Morning, dad." She grabbed the cream from where her dad had left it on the counter and asked, "What's the occasion?"

Michael turned from the stove, a weird look on his face. "Nothing, why?" He was wearing his usual fare for hanging about the house, shorts and a t-shirt, which showed off his few tattoos. He never wore anything but long sleeves in public, though. She'd always wondered what his reasoning was. When she was a small kid she used to be fascinated by his tattoos; it was partly the reason she got her own.

Tracey raised a brow and ticked off on her hand. "You only ever make breakfast on Christmas morning, Easter morning, birthdays or if you've done something wrong."

"What? A guy can't break from tradition every once and a while?" He turned back to the stove, and flipped the eggs. 

"Sure dad, but it is mildly suspicious."

"Look, do you want some or not?"

"Yeah," she said and slipped from the stool to grab a plate and a couple pieces of toast. He flipped one of the fried eggs on to the buttered surface and she topped it with a couple pieces of bacon. She loved these sandwiches; it was a slice of her childhood, and because of that, she never made them for herself. Somehow, it never tasted the same if someone else did it.

"Is Jimmy up?" Michael asked as she settled back on her stool.

"I didn't see him. Probably spent all night murdering aliens or something."

He rolled his eyes, "Yeah, probably." 

He grabbed his own fried egg sandwich and sat down next to her. They ate in silence, and Tracy had to admit it was nice. They didn't argue, he didn't tell her what to do, she didn't talk back; they just had breakfast together. It made her all nostalgic. 

Then her dad's phone went off. He fumbled it out of his pocket and frowned as he looked at the screen and then denied the call. He tossed the phone on the counter. 

She looked at him curiously. "Who was that?"

He picked up the newspaper and shook it out, "No one."

Yeah right... She raised an eyebrow. "It wasn't mom, was it?"

"What? No. Your mom's out in the pool."

He seemed a little shifty to Tracey. "Was it that cute black guy you made friends with? What did Jimmy call him? Francis? Fredrick?"

Michael looked at her sharply. "Franklin, and you stay away from him. I like the kid and I'd rather not have to kill him for messing with my daughter."

"Oh please, dad." Tracy rolled her eyes. "I said he was cute, not that I was willing to jeopardize my future career on some gang banger from Strawberry."

"Hey, Franklin's a good kid. He's going places, so don't talk about him like that."

"Alright. Still..." 

"Not another word, Trace."

She sighed. "Fine."

Michael went back to the paper. "Thank you."

Tracey picked up her now empty plate and hopped off the stool. She rinsed it off and shoved it in the dishwasher. She grabbed another slice of bacon and started out of the kitchen.

"Thanks for breakfast, dad. Hope it eases your conscience or, you know, whatever," she said and turned back, giving him a quick grin.

He looked ready to deny her words, when the door bell rang. They looked to the door, then at one another. Tracey shrugged, denying any involvement with whoever was the door.

Michael pocketed his phone as he stepped off his stool and headed to the front entrance with Tracey trailing behind. Her dad opened the door and she looked around his frame. 

"Uncle Trevor?!" she exclaimed. 

He was leaning against the frame of the door, looking like he hadn't sleep in a week. His clothing was dirty and rumpled, though that was really par-for-the-course concerning Trevor, and despite his apparent fatigue there was a wild look in his eyes. More interestingly, he didn't seem to acknowledge her presence, looking only at her dad.

"Jesus, T, what the fuck happened?" Her dad let the door fall open a little further and Trevor stumbled into the foyer. 

"You gotta help me Michael! I can't find one! I can't fucking find one anywhere in this stupid, plastic, _two-faced_ city!" Trevor fisted her dad's t-shirt and held on. She didn't miss the way her dad's face flushed. 

"Take it easy, man. What are you talking about? What can't you find?" Michael put his hands on Trevor's shoulders and held him steady; he was swaying on his feet. 

"A fucking Deludamol truck!"

"Why would you want one of those?" Michael asked, then shook his head. "No wait, I don't want to know."

Tracy spoke up then, "Well I do! Why do you want one of those, Uncle Trevor?"

He seemed to realize she was standing there and let go of Michael, stumbling backwards before catching himself. "What are you doing here?"

She gave him a funny look. "I _live_ here."

"Oh, right. Whatever." He turned back to Michael, and that brush off took Tracey back. There was something seriously off with him. "I need your help, you fucking _owe me_ that."

Michael pinched the bridge of his nose. "Why? What the fuck do you want with a Deludamol truck? That's chump change compared to your other...industries."

"It's for my _ma!"_ Trevor wailed. "She wants a truck load of the shit; she's in pain, Michael!"

Tracey watched in fascination as the colour drained out of her dad's face. "She's _out?"_ he choked. 

"Yes! She fucking accosted me in Sandy Shores. I-I gotta do this, I-fuck, she's my mom, man. I just can't, I mean, I didn't even fucking write her! Do you have any idea how _looong_ she's going to torture me with that?!"

Tracy had to admit it had been a while since she'd last seen Trevor, but she couldn't remember a time when she'd seen him so unhinged. Not in a 'I'm going to rip this fucking world apart' but in a 'this is the end!' kind of way. 

"Okay, okay, _fuck_. Just let me get changed," her dad said and turned to go upstairs. He stopped dead when he heard her mom calling from the dining room. 

"Someone at the door, Michael?"

" _Shit,_ " he hissed and turned back to Trevor and promptly clammed a hand over his Trevor's mouth. Rightly so, because Uncle Trevor was about to make some noise. 

"No, just you know...it was no one!" He called back across the house, arms clamping down on Trevor as he started squirming. 

"I thought I heard some noise…" They could hear her moving into the kitchen.

Her dad's face got a little desperate looking, and Tracey decided to take pity on him before Uncle Trevor struggled free. She gestured to her dad, 'I got this,' and headed back out to the kitchen. 

"It was nothing, mom." she said, positioning herself between her mom and her view of the foyer. "Just some of those annoying guys in cheep suits trying to convert us to their ponzi scheme of a religion. Dad took care of them." 

"How times is that this year? I wish we could get off their list or whatever."

"Yeah, I know right?" she said as she grabbed her coffee off the counter. "Let's sit outside; I need to work on my tan."

Her mom smiled. "Alright."

She should really win some kind of award for that performance.

\- - - -

Michael sighed with relief as Tracey's voice faded out; she must have gone outside with Amanda. He removed his hand from Trevor's mouth and let him go. Trevor had resorted to childishness and had been licking Michael's palm in an effort to get him to let go.

Michael wiped his hand on his shorts with a disgusted look. "What are you, _ten?"_

" _Me?_ You're the one who put your hand on my mouth! How juvenile is that?"

They glared at one and another before Michael gave up and shook his head. "Just sit down and I'll be right back." 

He gestured to the couch and then ran up stairs. He had to make this as quick as possible, so many things could go wrong if he left Trevor unsupervised for long. 

He threw on a pair of jeans, socks and a pair of sneakers. Then grabbed one of his button-ups from off their hangers and tossed it on over his t-shirt. Michael raced back downstairs to find Trevor pacing back and forth in the foyer. Hands shoved in his pockets and a small thunderstorm following him around. Michael almost laughed as a stray thought came to him. Trevor had never more looked like a hipster than in that moment. 

"The fuck took you so long?" Trevor snarled as Michael grabbed his keys, wallet and sunglasses off the table next to the stairs. 

"Long? That was the fastest change of my life."

"Whatever, let's go."

"Oh, yes, _please!_ I certainly didn't have anything else planned today," Michael shot back, sarcasm dripping from his tone, and shoved open the front door.

"Like what? Avoiding me?"

Michael's face flushed in embarrassment. "T…I-"

"Save it for later, _M_ (and I mean later, I won't fucking forget about this). We've got work to do."

Trevor's truck was park haphazardly in the driveway, with the driver's door still swung wide open. Michael made to go around to the passenger side, but Trevor called his name and then tossed him the keys.

"You drive."

The keys hit Michael in the chest before he caught them. "Why?"

"Because I haven't slept in over twenty-four hours, Sugartits and you'd like to live to the end of this adventure, wouldn't you?"

Michael frowned but got into the driver's side. Trevor climbed in the passenger side and slumped in the seat. They rolled out of the driveway and started down the hill. 

At the first set of lights, Michael turned to Trevor. "Have you checked the hospitals?"

"Yeah, no trucks and no scheduled deliveries."

"What about the pharmacies?"

"What the fuck to do you think I am? Of course, I did that. I checked every one that I could fucking find. Interrogated a few of the pharmacists just to be sure."

The light changed.

"Do they have a warehouse in town?"

"No," Trevor snapped. "The drugs are shipped in from outta state."

Michael sighed. "Why does your mom want this stuff again?"

"I don't _knoow._ Probably to sell it or something, the fuck do I care? I just need to get her some."

"Will this get her off your back?"

"Don't _fucking_ talk about my ma that way!" Trevor exploded and Michael raised a hand in defence.

"Sorry, Jesus."

Trevor groaned and sunk further into the seat. "In all likelihood, she's only here for the drugs and is using her powers of guilt and shaming to get me to do her dirty work for. Which, admittedly, is _reeaally_ working well. Once she has the drugs, she'll vanish without so much as a 'I guess you're not that useless after all' and sell her payload. Which will keep her afloat for the next few months to a year (depending on the amount she jacks the price up), and she will then either a) end up in jail again or b) come back and guilt me into getting her another shipment. Which I will do in a misguided attempt to earn her affection, despite the clear and indisputable evidence that I will. Never. Get it."

The diatribe stunned Michael into silence for a few moments, not entirely sure how to respond. Finally he said, "At least you know your issues, I've spent the last two years trying to figure out mine."

" _Two years?_ You stupid fuck, I could have told you your problem in two minutes."

"Yeah? Then enlighten me, oh wise one."

Trevor sneered at his sarcasm. "Your fucking problem, Mikey, is that you don't know how to reconcile your love of crime with your idea of justice. You love those cheesy movies where the good guy triumphs over the bad guy; it doesn't matter if it's a western or a crime noire. You want to be that gun-toting good-guy who saves the day and gets the dame. _Buuut_ what you really are, is the stealing, murdering _fuck_ who is the antithesis of everything that good-guy stands for. You try to be that good-guy and fail miserably (because that's not you), and in a fit of rage go back to your 'evil ways', have a good time, and then hate yourself for it afterwards."

They rolled to a stop at another light and Michael gaped at Trevor. Not even Freidlander had summed up all his insecurities and issues to so well. 

Trevor turned in his seat to look at Michael, disgust written on his features. "How did you ever manage to stand yourself living as the 'good-guy' for nine years?"

Honestly, put like that, Michael had no idea, but he decided that was a little too much honesty this early in day and settled on a glib quip. "Expensive booze and cigars." 

The light went green. 

"No wonder you're so fucking miserable." Trevor, as always, saw right through Michael's bullshit. "Where the fuck are we going?"

"We're getting a Deludamol truck, or did your meth addled brain forget already?"

"Fuck. You." Trevor growled.

"We're going to see Lester. He should be able to find you a truck and it'll save us from driving all over LS looking for one."

"Why? So that bitter cripple fuck can take twenty percent off the top?"

"No, as a favour, and Lester earns every penny."

"Sure, yeah, and I've been pulling jobs without him and you for years, Mikey. He's not all he's cracked up to be."

Michael raised an eyebrow. "That why you're still a two-bit criminal running drugs and weapons? When was the last you scored like we did during that Union heist or that bank job?"

There was silence from that end of the truck for several moments. "Ugh! Alright fine! He has his use," Trevor said, every word forcibly wrung out of him. Michael smirked. Trevor sneered and spent the rest of the trip in a sulky silence.

When Michael pulled up in front of Lester's house, he turned to ask Trevor if he wanted to come in and trade insults with Lester, but found him asleep. Michael shook his head as he quietly got out of the truck. It was obvious from his behaviour Trevor needed sleep, and Michael was willing to let him, in the hope he would be less snippy and more creatively insulting when he woke up. There was something not entirely right with the world when Trevor was off his game.

He hopped up the stairs to Lester's house and took off his sunglasses for the cameras. A moment later the door's lock clicked back and Michael pushed it open. He wound his way through the short hallway to find Lester sitting at his computer, typing rapidly away at something on the screen. 

"To what do I owe this pleasure?" he asked and Michael took a seat on the couch. 

"I need a favour."

"Of course you do. You never stop by for a social call. What is it this time?"

Michael look at Lester's profile for a moment and wondered if, just for a second, Lester's biting sarcasm was masking some sort of hurt concerning their friendship (if you could call it that), but then he brushed it off as having a really fucking weird morning. 

"I need the location of a Deludamol truck." 

Lester turned to look at him, eyes narrowed. "Why?"

"It's for Trevor."

Lester rolled his eyes. "What does he want with one if those? Aside from the obvious black market prescription racket."

"He wants to give it to his mother as a fucked up sort of peace offering."

"He has a mother, does he? I always assumed he dragged himself out some sludge pool somewhere."

Michael chuckled, he'd sort of thought that himself before he had the misfortune of meeting Mrs. Philips. "If you met her, you think that the preferable option."

"Huh. Well, I suppose, I could track one down for you provided you're willing to trade a favour for it later."

Michael leaned back on the couch. "Of course."

"Good. I might have something I'll need help with later." Lester turned back to his computer. After a moment, he looked at Michael. "What are you still doing here? I'll text you with the information."

"Trevor's sleeping out in his truck, I thought I'd give him ten minuets. He's apparently been up all night scouring LS for a truck. Came to the house this morning a wreck."

"Hmm," Lester mumbled mostly ignoring Michael. "Well if he'd half a brain he would have contacted someone to find the truck for him or at the very least to checked delivery dates."

Michael shook his head. "You don't get it Lester, Trevor can't think straight when his mother is around. He goes into this panicked, snivelling state that renders him mostly useless and when he's out of her presence his temper is even more explosive than normal. She's the reason for T's many, _many_ fucking issues."

Lester harrumphed. "Yes, well, as fascinating as this is, I have work to do, so if you're going to hang out in here please keep it down. I can't think with you regaling me with stories about Trevor's fuck up childhood."

"Alright, I'll keep it down." Michael pulled his phone from his pocket and checked his messages.

He had one from Tracey asking him where he was right now and if he really was going to steal a pharmaceutical truck, and one from Franklin wanting to know he wanted to hang out later. He sent a text back to Tracey, just to fuck with her, telling her not to talk about those sorts of thing on an unsecured line, and another text to Franklin with an apology for not being available today because of Trevor. Somehow, Michael had the feeling this was going to be an all-day project.

"Why didn't he call you?" Lester asked, seemingly out of the blue.

Michael looked up at him, confusion on his face. "What?"

"Trevor. You said he came by your house this morning. Why didn't he call you?"

"Oh...that. We've just…"

"You've been avoiding him," Lester stated and Michael winced. "Why? I thought you two were on better terms since the North Yankton debacle."

Michael's face flushed. "We were- are! It hasn't been that long. I mean, only just last week really..." he floundered. "Can we not talk about this?" 

Lester smirked, and went back to his computer. "Oh, if only the old crew were still around, I'd make be making a killing right now."

"On what?" Michael could feel himself tensing for a denial. Christ, this was just what he fucking needed today...

"Whatever you just thought of, is what I'm talking about."

Michael's head hit the back of the couch. "Oh _fuck_ …" he hissed.

Lester laughed. "Don't get so hung up, I always knew it'd be one or the other and since you both came back alive from North Yankton..."

"Yeah, only because those Chinese fuckers accosted us and prevent us from shooting each other."

"And they only kidnapped you because they believed you and Trevor..." Lester laughed again, wheezing a bit and unable to finish that thought. For which, Michael was immensely grateful for.

"Yeah, yeah, just shut it, okay? Fuck, I don't even know what to think, let alone what to tell my family."

"Why tell them anything? It's not like you and Trevor are going to live happily ever after. Neither one of you is built for that. You'll just argue and steal, like you've always done together, only now, you'll occasionally fuck."

Michael could hardly stand to think of that, let alone hear someone else say it aloud. He stood from the couch. "I'm going to go now so I don't have to listen to anymore of your 'insights'."

"Good, I was starting to tire of your presence anyways." Lester waved him away. "I'll text you when I have a location."

Michael paused at the door to the hall and considered for a brief moment the fact that, like Trevor, Lester had once been one of his good friends. He'd grown a lot pricklier in the last nine years, and Michael wondered how often he got out anymore. Not that he was much of a social guy to begin with, but once they got along really well, and now? Michael realized that when he 'died' that day in North Yankton, he'd left behind more than he thought.

"Hey, Lester?"

"What? Aren't you supposed to be gone by now?"

"We should hang out sometime, you know, like we used to back in the day. We could go to a bar or a skin joint or hey, you could even come to my house. I got a pool and a TV; we could veg out and watch the golden age of American movies."

Lester turned to him, eyes narrowed and for the second time asked him, "Why?

If there was one thing Michael had learnt by getting old, it was that people only got more stuck in their ways, not less. He smiled self deprecatingly and said, "Because I'm a man deeply entrenched in a mid-life crisis and have come to the realization that I know practically no one in Los Santos, despite sending nearly a decade in this town. Do an old friend a favour and humour me, won't you?"

Michael knew that by making it his issue and not Lester's was really the only way to get him to agree; Lester had always hated pity. Besides, what Michael said was true. Maybe this way they could both benefit from a renewed friendship.

"Alright," Lester replied after a moment. "I'll have to move some things around on my schedule...why don't you text me when you're available, after this whole Trevor thing, and we'll set up something."

"Sounds goods, talk with you later."

Michael saved the grin of victory for after he was out of range of Lester's cameras.

\- - - -

Trevor awoke to an earthquake. He bolted up and gripped the side of his truck. Michael's exclamation of surprise bought him out of the half remembered dream. Not an earthquake then. Oddly, he was mildly disappointed. He glanced around and saw the Vanilla Unicorn's neon sign.

"Thought we were going to the cripple's?"

"I already did. You've been asleep," Michael said and pressed the truck's keys into his hand. "Lester'll text me when he has the location of a truck. You should sleep until then." He turned to go.

"Where you off to?" Trevor growled. "We're in this together."

Michael turned back but kept walking away. "We are, but I'm going home. I'll be back with a procured car at the appropriate time."

Trevor watched Michael for a moment, then hopped out of the truck. "Not really tired anymore, let's get a drink."

"It's a little early, isn't it?"

"Did you seriously just fucking say that?" Trevor gave him an incredulous look.

Michael sighed and stopped. "Fuck. Fine. I'll stay for _one_ drink."

"That's what you always say and it never is, Mikey." Trevor said as Michael passed him on the way into the joint. He may or may not have checked out his ass on the way.

"I'm serious this time. We can't really afford to be wasted right now."

"Sure, sure."

They passed into the dim lighting and thrumming music of the club. Trevor ambled over to the bar and grabbed a couple of beers with a wink to the woman behind it. Michael moved away and down the short stairs.

"Nice to see you back, Mr, Philips."

"Good to be back, Cherry. Those fuck heads give you guys any trouble since last time?"

She smirked. "Nah, you and your friend must have taught them one hell of a lesson. Ringo left your take in the office."

"Good."

"See you." She gave him a coy little wave as he pulled away.

Trevor trotted down the stairs and pressed a cold beer into Michael's hand. Michael cracked it and they stood watching the girl on the pole spin about, one had to appreciate her acrobatics but to be honest he really wasn't in the mood for girls. He let out a huge yawn that cracked his jaw and Michael gave him a side glance. 

"Not tired, huh?"

"No. Just a little bored is all."

Michael raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

"Yeah, _buut_ I can think of a few things to keep us occupied."

He let his lip curl into a smirk as he held Michael's gaze. He could see Michael's eyes dilate somewhat in the poor lighting and his flushed face at the implication of his words. Michael started shaking his head, fucking chicken.

"Come on," Trevor walked away from the stage and headed toward the back. He didn't look back but he could feel Michael's indecision. A grin of triumph lighted his face as he heard Michael's hiss of " _Fuck._ " and his tread on the carpeted floor. While it was entertaining to 'convince' Michael into this, _ooho_ , it would be so much better with a willing Michael.

They passed through the change rooms and a couple girls were fixing their makeup at the mirrors. They gave a cheery chorus of "Hello Mr. Philips!" and he gave them a grin and mimed shooting them as they passed. They giggled. Michael groaned in embarrassment and covered his face. Trevor chuckled and threw an arm around his shoulders, guiding Michael's slowing steps to the office.

Trevor threw open the door and pressed Michael into the office. He kicked the door closed, swiped his beer out of his hand, and set both of them down on the desk. Then he stepped up to Michael, who stepped away. Alright, two can play this game. He manoeuvred around Michael, watching in some amusement as he continued to back way until he was backed right into a wall. The surprise that flitted across his face was satisfying and Trevor savoured the moment.

"I should go. I'm not even sure why the fuck I'm here... Christ," he trailed off as Trevor pressed closer and let his hands settle on Michael's hips.

"Go? I don't think so, Mikey. Let's have that little _chat_ about why you've been avoiding me." Trevor's hands slipped under Michael's shirts and ghosted around the edge of his jeans. 

Michael sucked in a gasp of air. "Why the fu-fuck do you think?"

Trevor's hands crawled a little higher, as Michael's hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, not sure what to do with them. "Oh I can think of plenty of reasons, but I want to fucking _know_ why you've been doing it."

"Jesus f-fuck…" Michael stuttered as Trevor shoved his shirts higher. "We just...in the fucking parking lot…after killing two people!"

"They fucking deserved it!" Trevor snarled, fingers digging into Michael's sides.

 _"No shit."_ Michael snapped and Trevor relaxed his grip. "But that doesn't make it any less-" Michael's breath caught in his throat as Trevor's palms slid roughly over his nipples.

"Any less, what?" He did it again just to hear the shuddering sound Michael made, fuck if it didn't go straight to his groin. 

"Fucked up."

Trevor chuckled, low and throaty, and leaned right in to Michael's ear, "Fun though, wasn't it?"

Michael groaned and his head fell back against the wall, hands finally coming to rest on Trevor's hips. He gave Michael's nipples one last tweak before sliding back down to the button on his jeans. 

"This is a prime example of your issues, Mikey. You got pissed at that bar with Franklin," he flicked the button open and Michael stilled under him, "because you had a fight with the missus after trying to be that 'good-guy'. So what did you do?" Trevor prompted as he pulled the zipper apart. 

"I g-got angry and left." 

" _Riiight..._ " He pushed Michael's jeans down his hips and let them pool around his ankles. Trevor paused momentarily to rearrange himself; his cock was pressing insistently against his zipper. "And in that fit of rage you got wasted and then later got in a brawl and killed a man." 

Michael's fingers tightened on his hips as an indignant look crossed his face. That was more like it. "If you hadn't been such an arrogant _asshole_ , that never would have happen-" Michael's words choked to a stop as Trevor traced the line of his half-hard dick through his boxers. He sucked in a shuddering breath but continued on, "It wouldn't have happened if you had a single _ounce_ of fucking sense!" 

" _That_..may be true," Trevor conceded, "but we're not talking about my various problems. We're talking about yours." Trevor slid a hand into Michael's boxers and gripped his cock. Michael made a low noise in the back of his throat as his hands tightened on Trevor's hips. "After that brawl, murder and mutual sword play, you ignored me. Why was that?" 

Michael's head fell back again and he stared moving his hips in an effort to get Trevor to stroke his cock. Trevor wasn't having any of it, he squeezed Michael's dick harder in warning and braced his other arm across his chest. "Answer the question, Mikey." 

"Shit, Trevor...because I hated myself." 

Trevor lazily started stroking Michael's cock, bringing it to a full straining hardness. "That's right, you had fun and hated yourself for it." Trevor tisked. "You gonna hate this too?" 

Michael shook his head. 

" _Liar,_ " Trevor rumbled, smirking. "But let's make that self-hate worth it, huh?" 

He let go of Michael's dick, and Michael's hips chased after him for a moment until Trevor put his hands on them again. He stared at Michael's flushed face, pupils blown wide and dark as he sank to his knees in front of him. 

" _O-oh..._ " Michael groaned and his hands fluttered for a moment, before curling into fists and settling against the wall. "Fuck..T. Are you serious?" 

Trevor pulled Michael's cock from his boxers, letting the waistband fall snug under it. He stroked the lines of Michael's hips as he said, "As a fuckin' heart-attack. Which you're about five double cheeseburgers away from." He sank his fingers into Michael's hips to illustrate his point. 

Michael scowled at him, one hand uncurling from the wall and moving faster than Trevor could deflect, Michael grabbed a handful of his hair, yanking his head back harshly. Michael's eyes drifted pointedly to the tattoo around his neck. “Just give me a fuckin' reason, T.” 

Trevor grinned, mocking and challenging at once. They stayed like that for several moments; deadlocked. Trevor's breath ghosting over the tip of Michael's cock, causing to twitch and Michael's eyes burning with something Trevor hadn't seen in this LS version. Yes, he thought and his grin changed to something more approving. Michael didn't let up. 

Finally, Trevor twisted his head and said, “You gonna let me get to it, or what?” 

Michael's expression shifted, he made a showing of debating whether or not to let Trevor go, and Trevor rolled his eyes (as if there was any fucking question he would). Then his hand slowly uncurled from Trevor's hair and returned to the wall. Trevor's fingers tightened on Michael's hips to keep him from moving before pressing his mouth over the swell of Michael's cock. 

He wasn't an expert at this was any means, it wasn't like he went around looking for cocks to suck (despite his mother's apparent wish), but he had done it enough times (and had it done to him many, many times) to know what to do. Besides let's be honest, it was pretty hard to fuck up a blow job. Judging by the way he had to pin Michael's hips in place, he was doing pretty fucking good job if he did say so himself. He sucked hard, swirled around the tip and pressed his tongue into the slit of Michael's cock until he was practically vibrating under Trevor's fingers. The thought of the bruises that would be on Michael's hips tomorrow made his cock twitch. He released Michael with a wet pop, and wiped the spit from the corners of his mouth. 

"Christ..." Michael sobbed, hips jerking.. 

"Hey!" Trevor barked, and slapped Michael's hip. "You'll take my fuckin' eye out with that thing." 

"Sorry…" he mumbled. 

Trevor stood again and took a step back, admiring the half-fucked look on Michael's face; shirt rumpled, pants around his ankles, cock flushed and leaking. "Turn around," he growled, rubbing his dick through the fabric of his pants. 

Michael look at him blearily, "What?" 

"Turn. Around." 

"Why?" Michael had recovered enough to look suspiciously at Trevor. 

" _Because_ …" Trevor drawled, hand closing around Michael's cock, thumbing the tip, "I want to fuck your cloth covered ass. Sound okay to you, Mikey?" 

Trevor could see the battle in Michael's eyes between the 'good-guy' and guy who knew how to have a little fun. But, by the way Michael's cock had twitched when he said those words the fight had already been decided. Michael swallowed, his throat working a few times before he pushed Trevor back a step and awkwardly turned around, bracing his arms against the wall. He let out a little hiss as his prick came into contact with the cool wall and he angled himself away from it slightly. 

Trevor watched with hungry eyes while undoing his pant's button and zipper, and pulling his dick from it's torturous confines. He couldn't resist giving it a few quick strokes before stepping up behind Michael and laying his hands on his hips. He pressed against the seam of Michael's boxers, dick slotting into the crack of his ass and Trevor bit off a moan at the sensation. He looped one arm around Michael's waist, pulling him tighter against himself and settled his other hand on Michael's cock. Though it was still slightly wet from his early administrations, he smeared as much of the pre-cum as he could to facilitate a fluid stroking motion. 

Trevor started rocking his hips and reflexively the arm around Michael's waist tightened. He could feel the heat of Michael's ass bleed through his boxers and he thought of how fucking _great_ it would be when he managed to work Michael up to fucking, and then if they could do it the other way...Trevor groaned. He could feel his concentration slipping and his movements slowing on Michael's cock as his own hips grew more erratic. 

He jerked somewhat in surprise when Michael's hand closed tightly around his own and guided his strokes. It let him concentrate more on the motion of his hips. Trevor eased his grip on Michael's waist, letting his hips move more freely and let his hand slide up Michael's stomach to his chest. He let his lips quirk momentarily before sliding his hand roughly over Michael's nipple. 

"Fuck...Trevor," Michael stuttered and he did it again and suddenly Michael's hand twisted his sharply on his dick and he was coming. Trevor groaned as Michael's ass checks clenched somewhat around his dick and he started thrusting harder, placing both his hands on Michael's hips. 

He could hear Michael's breathing slow somewhat, and then as he felt Michael shift under him, shoving his hips back sharply. Trevor bit off a curse, if he would only do that again. 

"What is taking so long?" Michael asked, voice somewhere between annoyed and amused. "Too busy thinking about fucking me to actually do it?" 

Trevor's hips stuttered and he shook his head, not that Michael was looking at him. Michael shoved his hips back again and Trevor swore, he may have also pleaded with Michael to do it again but he couldn't be sure. 

Michael chuckled darkly, his voice going low and rough. " _Make me._ ” 

Trevor came with a hoarse groan because fuck if there was little more arousing than an in-charge Michael. Christ this was long time coming. He splattered the back of Michael's shirt and the front of his. Shit. He stumbled backward, pants slipping down to his knees. Michael huffed a breath of laughter, head resting against his arms. Trevor bumped into the desk, looking at it in annoyance before tucking his dick away and pulling his pants back up. He shucked his t-shirt with a frown and tossed it somewhere off in a corner. 

He watched as Michael pulled his pants up and did them up. Then turned and started undoing the buttons on his shirt. Trevor went to the couch and collapsed on it, he was dead tired. The last thing he heard before falling asleep was the back door clicking closed. 

\- - - - 

Jimmy stumbled out of bed sometime around noon, hair wild and bladder aching. 

He came back from the bathroom with his hair no better that before and grabbed a pair shorts that were dangling off his bed. As he was hopping around trying to get them on he knocked over his bong and chipped the edge of it. He swore and slid it under his bed so it would be out of the way. He grabbed a t-shirt from the pile of laundry on the floor. He went downstairs and found the house quiet. 

A few pans were on the stove, bacon grease opaque in one pan and a few slices of toast left on a plate to the side. He grabbed the last of them and pulled a glass from the cupboard for orange juice. 

He heard Tracy's voice filter in through the open kitchen window; she was singing some stupid song and doing a poor job of it. He glanced out the window to see her wiggling about in a deck chair in a mockery of dance, eyes closed. He wandered outside and sat in the beach chair next to her, sipping his orange juice and squinting his eyes against the glare of the sun off the pool. He could faintly hear the shrill noise of the song from where he sat before it abruptly cut off. 

"You'll get wrinkles like that, you know," she said sitting up and sliding on a pair of sunglasses. He knew she was trying to avoid tan lines on her face from them. 

"Good thing wrinkles on a man are sexy. Too bad it's the opposite for women." 

"Oh, please. They just make you look old. I mean just look at mom, she's ages like ten years in the last few months and no amount of Preservex is going to smooth out those lines. Dad's no better, he always looks tired."

"Shit, don't say that, I got dad's looks. I don't wanna end up saggy..." 

Tracy laughed, "Don't be ridicules, you have mom's looks. You're screwed. I on the other hand-" 

"Are going to look like a leather hand bag if you keep sun tanning." 

Her laughter abruptly stopped, " _Screw you_ , Jimmy." 

He gave her a smirk and settled down into the chair, closing his eyes against the sun, the heat of the mid-day sun a tangible thing around them. 

"Dad made fried egg sandwiches this morning, you missed it," she said, smug triumph in her voice. 

"Oh, what?! Why didn't anyone get me?" Jimmy turned to find Tracey lounging with a smirk on her face. 

"Because you're a grown man, Jimmy. Get out of bed before noon and you wouldn't miss out on these things." 

He groaned, "Cruel Tracey, very cruel. What did he do? Was it bad? Do you think he'll make them tomorrow morning?" 

"I don't know. He denied doing anything wrong." 

"Must have been bad...oh, I hope so." 

Tracey scoffed, "That's messed up." 

"They are worth it!" Jimmy sing-songed and stabbed finger in the air. 

Tracey giggled as she waved him off and started to put her headphones back on when her cell phone rang. She peered at the screen and then smirked. "It's dad," she said. "Hi, dad. Did you do that thing, with Uncle Trevor?" 

Thing? Jimmy wondered, What thing? And Uncle T? What did he miss this morning?

"No. Mom's not home. I think she went to have lunch with Barb, it is Wednesday after all." Tracey looked over at him, frowning as she listened to something Michael said. "Is something wrong?" A moment more of silence. "Your voice is all weird. Did something happen?" 

Jimmy cheered silently, and Tracey shook her head but a grin was on her face. Yes! Oh there was definitely going to be fried egg sandwiches tomorrow. 

"Well alright, if you're sure, see you in a bit." She clicked off and tossed her phone back on the small table between the chairs. "Dad will be home soon." 

Jimmy nodded. "So, what thing with Uncle T?" 

Tracey's face lit up, and leaned toward him. There was little in the world she liked better than spreading a little gossip. 

\- - - - 

Michael climbed out of the shower and grabbed a towel from the rack. Shit. What the fuck had he been thinking, following Trevor? _Fuck._ He knew better than to accept that offer of a drink, but he fucking did it anyways. He could only imagine how Amanda would make his life a living hell when she found out, because she fucking would. Michael wasn't about to kid himself into thinking he was a master of deceit, or that Trevor could be discreet, or that Amanda was stupid. He felt like he was skating on thin ice that was about to crack under the sharp edges of his blades. 

He towelled off and stepped into the closet off the en suite. He dressed quickly in jeans, a dress shirt to make sure his tattoos were covered and grabbed a ball cap from the nearest shelf. He pulled his gun from the worn shoe box he kept it in on one of the high selves in the closet. He checked the clip, then tucked it in the waistband of his jeans. He also grabbed a worn wooden wedge and the long mangled section of wire hanger. He shoved them in his pocket and headed downstairs. 

Before he had jumped in the shower, Lester sent him a text with the location: 

Strawberry. NW of Davis. Close to Franklin's aunts house.  
Outside a Suds Law Laundromat, only for a few hours. 

"Tracey!" he called, pocketing his phone and wallet. 

"Yeah?" she replied from the kitchen. He followed her voice and found her and Jimmy sitting at the kitchen counter, texting. 

He shook his head and said, "Give me a ride down to Del Perro." 

She looked over at him with confusion on her face but she was already sliding off the stool. "How come?" 

"Its for the thing." 

"Oh!" Her face split into a grin. "Okay, just let me get my keys." 

She rushed past Michael and for a moment he was struck by guilt for loving her enthusiasm to spend time with him under the guise of committing a crime. Amanda was going to flip the fuck out when she found out. 

"Hey!" Jimmy protested. "What about me? I can drive too!" 

"If I remember correctly, last time you and I went for a drive you drugged me and stole my car. Forgive me my reluctance to spend time with you in a vehicle." 

Jimmy had the decency to look mildly guilty. "Okay, that was not cool. I get it, but I want to watch you and Uncle T steal a truck. I mean, that sounds pretty cool." 

He tried to look disapproving, but a smile quirked at the corner of his mouth. "Tracey told you, did she?" 

Tracey appeared at Michael's side then. "Ready?" 

"Yeah," Jimmy replied. "She can't keep her big mouth shut." 

_"Hey!"_ Tracey yelled 

"Cut it out, you two. I do not have time for this," Michael snapped and the two of them glared at one another. Michael pinched the bridge of his nose and wondered why he was even considering this, but said, "Look, we'll take my car. Let's go." 

Jimmy grinned triumphantly at Tracey as she made a noise of annoyance. They headed out to the garage. A chorus of "Shotgun!" rang out and then an argument over who said it first. Fuck. At this rate, they'd never leave. 

"Jimmy, in the back," Michael said as he opened the driver's door. Tracey laughed and hopped around to the passenger side. 

"Aww, _Michael_ …" Jimmy whined. 

"That, right there, is the reason. Get in the back or I'll leave you behind. And stop calling me that. I'm your Goddamn father, show a little respect." He could feel the strain of Jimmy's eyes rolling. He pushed the button for the garage door and started the car. "You know, my dad would have beat the shit out of me if I went around calling him by his first name." 

"Oh great, not another, 'back in my day' story. If this is going to be the whole trip you can just let me out now." 

Michael was about to reply when Tracey beat him to it. She turned in her seat and glared at Jimmy.

"Are you trying to ruin this? _Shut up._ " 

Michael couldn't keep the grin off his face. "Thanks, Trace." 

She gave a sharp nod and settle back in her seat. In the back, Jimmy huffed. 

"So why is there a Deludamol truck in Del Perro? Shouldn't it be at, like a hospital or something?" Tracey asked as they stopped for a light. 

"There isn't one. And yeah it should." 

"But you said-" 

"I'm not going to steal that truck right now. I'm going to steal a car so I can steal the truck. The truck is in Strawberry." 

Her brows knitted. "Why would you do that? Why not just go get the truck?" 

"Because," Jimmy drawled from the back seat, "Dad doesn't want to leave his car at the scene of a crime. The police will check the plates of the vehicles on scene and it would lead them right back to us." He finished as the light went green. 

"Oh. So if you leave a stolen car at the scene, then they'll, like, trace it to the wrong person?" 

"No," Michael said, "they'll know it was stolen. Cops aren't stupid, don't ever underestimate them. However, they won't have any suspects except whoever stole the car. And if we're careful, they won't know who stole the car." 

"So that's why we're going to Del Perro." 

"Yes." 

"This is so _exciting!_ " Tracey exclaimed. 

That probably shouldn't have filled Michael with a warm fuzzy feeling, but it did. He spent the rest of the trip bombarded with questions about stealing cars and trucks that morphed into talking about the old days in North Yankton. 

He spent the last nine years in LS believing he couldn't impart any of this information to his kids because he'd given that life up, the one thing he felt competent in. Which, he knew, was why he jumped on the friendship with Franklin. He also knew it was a life he didn't want for his kids, but fuck it. They weren't doing any with their lives anyway, and if they wanted to listen to him on this subject then he was going to talk. 

They pulled onto the pier and Michael backed into a stall facing the water. He shut off the engine and handed the keys to Tracey. Then grabbed a pair of gloves out of the central console and slipped them on. 

"Okay," Michael said, "I want you two to get out of the car when I do, and go over to the fairgrounds; mill around, buy something, blend in. I cannot stress that enough. I'm going to go over to a car and take it. Stay here for at least ten minutes before you leave and for the love of God, don't draw suspicion." 

"You mean we can't watch you?" Tracey's face fell. 

"No. You'll draw attention to me, and that's the _last_ fucking thing I need." 

"At least tell us what car you're gonna steal." Jimmy said from the back and Tracey nodded earnestly. 

Michael sighed. "Alright." He looked out to the lot. "The one in the middle, under the lamp post." Both their heads turned, eager to find it. "Be fucking subtle, you think the camera won't pick up you two blockhead's movement?" He was going to get caught, all because he wanted a little family outing. Fuck. 

"The blue one?" Jimmy asked. 

"No, the white one next to it." 

Jimmy frowned. "Why that one? It's _old_ and not at all cool." 

Michael rolled his eyes. "It's not about being cool. It's about its location in the lot; it's cheapness means that it won't have an extensive alarm system and it's age makes it easier to hot-wire. I ain't looking for a getaway car." 

"What does it's location have to do with it?" Tracey asked. 

"See the lamp posts? The one in the middle has two security cameras on it. The camera's one blind spot is right below it. There is another one as you leave the pier." 

"Neat," Tracey said, and grinned at Michael. 

Michael glanced around the pier. "If we sit here any longer, we'll attract attention." He opened the driver's door, and both his kids did the same. He pulled his ball cap low and shoved his hands in his pockets, taking an unhurried stroll back across the parking lot. Tracey and Jim headed down into the fairgrounds, shoulder to shoulder and not all that obvious for their first time. They didn't even look back. He was proud of them. 

Michael drew up beside the white car and glanced around for people watching. He pulled on the door handle to check if it was locked. It was, but sometimes you got lucky. He shoved the wedge between the door and the frame, hammering it into place with the palm of his hand, carefully checking to see if that had brought any attention. Then he quickly straightened the strip of metal he'd brought with him, snaked it into the door and fiddled with the lock for a moment. It took a little longer than he liked but soon the door popped. 

The alarm went off, but he knew it would so it didn't startle him. He slid into the front seat, yanked the wires out from the dash and thumbed over them until he found what he figured was the alarm. It stopped and then he started her up. 

As he rolled out of the lot, the thumping noise of the tires rumbling over the wood slats noisy in the confines of the car, he prayed that his kids stayed safe and didn't do anything stupid. 

He pulled out his phone when he got back onto the pavement and called Trevor. 

"What?" Trevor grunted voice heavy with sleep, and it made Michael wonder if he bothered to look at who was calling before answering. 

"L found a truck. Meet me outside in ten." 

"Sure," he answered and hung up. 

It took a little longer than ten minuets. Even mid-day LS traffic was enough to make someone want to commit homicide, and driving a stolen car without the police on your tail meant obeying the speed limit (within reason, because there was no quicker way to end up dead in Los Santos than by obeying the speed limit when everyone around you was going 10 miles faster). Trevor was lounging outside the building, a ball cap pulled low and a pair of aviators obscuring most of his face when Michael pulled into the lot. He opened the door with the edge of his shirt, which could only described as plaid hick, and sank into the low seat. 

"Where?" Trevor asked in lieu of a hello. Michael wasn't surprised, they were in business mode now, and Trevor was looking a little frayed. He even smelled like fresh cigarette smoke, which was a rare occurrence for him. 

"Strawberry. Outside a Suds Law Laundromat." 

Trevor snorted. "Fucking weird place for a Deludamol truck." 

"Yeah, tell me about it." 

They drove in relative silence, though Trevor tapped his fingers on his thigh in staccato of impatience. The Vanilla Unicorn was close and it didn't take long for them to find the laundromat. Trevor pointed the truck out. It was sitting nose out in the parking lot in front of a boarded up building that was next to the laundromat. 

Michael went around the block once, getting a feel for the area. Not a lot of people would try and stop them from jacking a vehicle in Strawberry, but he didn't want to take any chances. 

Michael pulled into the lot in front of the laundromat and sat in the car for a moment. He was curious about where the driver was. 

"I don't know, T," Michael said as he looked around, something wasn't right. "I don't have a good feeling about this. Maybe we should find another truck." 

"No. We're taking this one." Trevor opened the door with his sleeve and stepped out. He leaned back in, one arm slung over the open door. “So put on your ten gallon hat, M, and buck the fuck up.” 

"T!" Michael hissed, but Trevor ignored him and strolled over to the truck. Michael swore and stepped out of the car with the piece of metal in hand. He glanced inside the laundromat, and through the glass, saw two people doing laundry. As he watched them, his unease grew. He looked to the truck and saw Trevor waving him over from behind it. Michael trotted over to him. 

"We need to leave," Michael said as he joined Trevor. 

"Pull your panties out of your crack, and go jimmy the door." 

He grabbed a fist full of Trevor's shirt. "Remember what happened last time you ignored my gut?" 

Trevor gave him a sharp look and for a moment wavered. Then an angry look twisted his features, he grabbed Michael's shirt and pulled him close. "You gonna stab me in the back this time too, M?" he snarled. 

Michael impatiently knocked Trevor's hands free. "You think that's what this is about? You fuck. I'm trying to prevent another situation like that! You think I want to end up with another bullet in my chest?" 

"I don't know what you think, or how, you shifty fuck. How do I know you're not settin' me up?" 

"What?!" Michael seethed as he red-lined. He shoved Trevor against the back of the van. "You stupid, drug-addled, miserable, psychotic fuck! You came to me. You wanted my help and I gave it. Now that I am questioning the validity of this fucked up plan you think I'm getting ready to stab you in the back? Over a fucking _Deludamol truck?!_ Fuck you, T." He let Trevor go with a shove. "I'm done. You want this truck? _You_ fucking take it."

" _Fine!_ " Trevor roared. "I will!" 

Michael expected Trevor to turn and stomp away, but something had caught his eye and he looked past Michael, teeth bared. " _Fuck,_ " Trevor swore, pulled a handgun from the back of his work pants and shoved Michael aside. 

Michael saw the two men from the laundromat dive behind the white car and he swore. Fuck, fuck fuck, fuck! He knew it! _Goddamn it!_ It must have been a sting or something, because in the distance he heard sirens go off. Trevor fired a few shots before moving to diver's side of the vehicle, Michael followed. 

"Get this fucking thing started!" Trevor bellowed, but Michael was already smashing the driver side window in. 

He popped the lock and ripped the door open. A few bullets pinged the driver's door as he hopped inside. He looked out the windshield and saw more plain clothes cops running across the street. 

"T!" He yelled over the noise of the alarm and gun fire, yanking the wiring down where he could see it. "More in front of us."

Trevor skidded to a halt next to Michael, he peered through the busted window and fired at the cops closing in on them. He sparked the van to life and tied the wires. 

Trevor shoved his shoulder. "Move over!" 

Michael stumbled over the console and landed in the passenger seat, Trevor hot on his trail. Michael pulled his gun from his waistband and cocked it. Trevor had dealt with the majority of the plain clothes cops on the ground, but more seemed to be climbing out of the woodwork. Then a police car skidded to halt in the middle of the road way, and more police hopped out of it. Trevor gunned it out of the parking lot. Another police cruiser swerved in front of them at the intersection and as Trevor swerved around it, Michael thought for a brief moment they were going to roll. He gripped the door and prayed. 

The van straightened out, and he breathed out a sigh of relief. Trevor let out a wild bark of laughter and sped off from where the police were scrambling to get back in their cars. Michael looked in the side mirror and saw two cruisers swerve onto the same street as them, closing in quickly. 

"I realize this isn't a fucking race car, T, but could we possibly break _50?_ " Michael asked acidly as he smashed out the passenger window. 

"I'm doing the best I can, you whiny fuck! Just shoot the pricks and shut up!" 

Michael leaned out the window and shot at the front tires of the cars following them. He got the first one right away, and it swerved into oncoming traffic. The crunching noise of metal and glass made Trevor chuckle darkly. He was about to hit the second car when the van swerved suddenly and Michael's shot went wild. He cursed. The cruiser followed their path wildly, but kept up. 

"If you want me to shoot them, keep this fucking thing steady!" 

Horns blared around them as Trevor wove in and out of oncoming traffic. 

"Keep this thing steady, drive over fifty," Trevor mocked. "Would you like to _fucking_ drive?" 

"No," Michael snarled as he popped the tire of a cruiser gunning across the intersection at them. It served and then rolled, barely missing the nose of the van. "What I _would_ like is to stop finding myself in situations like this, over a haul that will gain us nothing but jail time!" 

"I'm not the one who gave us this fucking location! You'd better talk to L." 

Michael bared his teeth. "Fuck you. L wouldn't have led us here if he thought this shit was going to happen." 

"He didn't research it properly though, did he?" Trevor swerved back on to the right side of the street and smashed a stop sign in an effort to miss some congestion at a red light. 

Michael growled in frustration and leaned out the window to shoot the tire of the last cruiser visibly following them. Trevor, annoyingly, had a point. One he was about to concede when he spotted another cruiser headed for them from the intersection they were crossing. Michael shouted to Trevor and tried to shoot the driver to prevent it from smashing into them, but he was a second too late. Trevor swerved so that the car only hit their rear-end rather than t-boning them. 

They spun out in the intersection, crashing into a traffic light pole. The impact threw Michael sideways into the van's cross bar, smashing his head and the gun dropped from his hand. His vision blurred and darkened around the edges and the sound of the van's squealing tires as Trevor stepped on the gas to dislodge them seemed distant, as though his ears were filled with cotton. He couldn't move, could hardly think, and for a moment he thought he was going to pass out. He thought maybe Trevor was calling his name, but it was so distant... 

Then suddenly reality snapped back around him, and a blinding pain shot through his head. He groaned and groped the side of his head, his hand came away with blood. Oh, just fucking _great._ Beside him, Trevor was fuming loudly as he took another corner at a speed best reserved for a sports car.

"...you fuck. I swear to God, Michael if you fucking die for real this time you will regret it. _Oho_ , you'll be so _fucking_ sorry-" 

"I'm not dead," Michael rasped. "Not yet anyways." 

Trevor flicked his gaze to Michael for a brief second, his knuckles were white on the steering wheel. There was something desperate in his eyes that Michael remembered seeing in that farmyard in North Yankton. Then it was gone, eyes moving past Michael to the squad car that pulled up alongside them. The pounding in his head, thumping in time with the siren. Trevor's face turned ugly as he jerked the steering wheel hard and rammed the side of the car. It swerved, but came back at them, jolting the van and causing pain to lash through Michael's head. 

"Get your fucking gun, Michael. We're not finished here yet." 

Michael groped for his gun on the floor. "I can't shoot every fucking cop in Los Santos, get them off us!" His hand closed around the barrel and he sat back up. He pointed it at the car rushing back at them and fired three shots at the driver. He slumped and the car lost speed. Michael did a mental count of the bullets spent, it took longer then it should have. "I've only got one shot left." 

Trevor tossed Michael his gun, "There's five in there." 

"It's not enough," Michael said as he popped the last bulled from the chamber of his gun to put into Trevor's. "We have to get the fuck out of here!" 

"Don't you think I fucking know that? Jesus, who'd have thought they'd be _sooo_ attached to a fucking Deludamol van?" 

Michael looked at the street around them, Trevor had been heading steadily north and they were almost in Rockford Hills. The hilly area around the Vinewood sign might help them lose the cops. Of course, the hills would slow them down but they were running out of options at this point. 

"Head into the Vinewood Hills. We'll have a better chance to lose them there." 

"Sure thing, _boss._ " Trevor jeered and swerved into a neighbourhood and shot out across an intersection into the area of expensive housing. The highway became increasingly curvy and hilly and the van started losing some speed. 

Now it was harder for the cops to come at them from all sides, they controlled the path. Slowly as they took the sharp corners and weirdly situated intersections the sirens started to dim. There were a few still following a distance behind, but one car in particular was annoyingly dogged. It rammed their bumper, and Trevor had to clamp down on the wheel to keep from spinning out on a corner. 

"Would you please _shoot_ that cocksucker!"

Michael leaned out the side window. The car was too close to their bumper to get a clean shot of it's tires without risking hitting their own. Michael swore and popped back in, glancing in the back. There were no windows in the rear of the van but Michael tucked Trevor's gun away and started moving that way anyways. It was difficult with the boxes stacked in back and the constant rolling motion of the van; more than once the motion tossed Michael to side of the van, hand bracing against the panelling. 

His head was screaming at him and he was feeling vaguely nauseous, but he pressed forward until he was at the back. He sat on the boxes and pulled Trevor's gun out. He put his hand on the door handle and took a deep steadying breath. 

Michael popped the door, holding on to the handle so it wouldn't fly open and braced his feet on the other door. The cruiser's bumper was inches away and through the six inch wide gap Michael saw the cop's face shift into surprise. He pointed the weapon out and the cop hit the gas, ramming the back of the truck, jostling Michael and nearly making him lose his grip on the door. 

"Not today, fucker," Michael growled after he re-steadied himself and fired the rest of the clip into the windshield. Time seemed to slow as he made sure to place all six shots in the same space to break through the glass and hit the driver. The car slowed some, then swerved as the car behind it ran into it. They crashed and made a makeshift barricade. Michael grinned in savage triumph and slammed the door closed. From the front of the van, he could hear Trevor crow with glee as he drove further and further away from the crash. 

Michael climbed back into the front seat as they speed through the last of the Vinewood Hills and into the Great Chaparral. He was exhausted after that battle and nearly fallen asleep lying on the boxes, the adrenaline long burnt out of his system. His motion sickness had dissipated but his head still ached fiercely. He touched the side of his head as he settled back into the seat and winced at the huge goose egg throbbing there. He looked at his fingers, the blood was starting to ebb. It was probably a mild concussion. Not the first he'd had, and though the side of his head hurt the bone didn't feel fractured. Still, he should see a doctor next chance he got. 

He glanced out the window, at the countryside whipping by and felt a little ill looking at it. 

"Cop's will have the state troopers looking for us, slow down a little will you?" Michael grumbled as he settled his head against the seat's headrest. 

"Not many in this area. Normally they'd be hanging around Harmony, but since we hit their bank, they've been spending most of their time up in Paleto curled around their balls. It'll take those assholes longer to reach Sandy Shores than it will for us." 

Michael chuckled in acknowledgement as his eyes started drooping. He could feel Trevor's eyes cut to him, but he didn't say anything about his injury. 

"Probably an hour and a half 'til Sandy Shores, ya know, if you wanna nap like some delicate little pussy."

"Fuck you,” Michael grumbled, halfheartedly. “Wake me when we get there alright? You don't have to face her alone." 

Trevor grunted, it was a noncommittal sound, but Michael was already half asleep and he couldn't be bothered to drag himself back to wakefulness to deal with it. 

He awoke in the semi darkness to the sound of Trevor shouting for his mother. Michael grimaced, gathered their guns and pulled himself out of the van. Trevor had parked them in his garage, the door was wide open letting in some of the late afternoon light. The place smelled like old oil and gasoline, with an undertone of rubber and dust. It wasn't unpleasant. He slammed his door walked around the nose of the van and shut Trevor's as well. 

He heard a wailing noise come from the house and hesitated. Should he go in there or not? Michael sighed as the headache won out and closed the garage door as he exited, the late afternoon sun hot on his back. He entered the trailer to find Trevor curled up in a little ball making the most ridiculous snuffling noises. He very nearly rolled his eyes, instead he put the guns on the kitchen counter and crouched down next to Trevor. 

"T." 

"Fuck off, Michael," Trevor growled from under his arm. 

"And where should I fuck off to? This is the definition of 'middle of nowhere'." 

Trevor lifted his arm, teeth bared. "Here's an idea, why don't you go shake hands with a semi on the Great _Fucking_ Ocean Highway? Hmm?” 

This time Michael did roll his eyes and stood. "Alright." 

He went to the bathroom, pulling off his gloves as he went and grabbed some painkillers from the cabinet and took a couple. Washing them down with a handful of water from the sink. Then he stepped over Trevor's prone form, picked up the guns from the counter and grabbed Trevor's gun maintenance kit from the dish cupboard. 

Michael settled on the couch, and put everything down on the coffee table in front of him. He then proceeded to take the guns apart for cleaning. There was something he'd always found relaxing in the process, and considering the day he'd had, a little relaxation would be nice. Trevor's snuffling eventually stopped, though he remained on the floor, Michael could feel his eyes as he cleaned the guns. 

"She's probably at the bar or something." Michael said when he deemed it safe to start talking again. Trevor made a noise of agreement and sat up. 

Outside, there was the sound of a vehicle pulling up, and Trevor shot to his feet. He looked out the kitchen window and made a noise in the back if his throat, a noise much like a small animal dying, before rushing outside. Michael quickly reassembled the guns and picked up a cloth to wipe the oil from his hands. He stepped out on the porch to see Trevor dancing about with nervous energy as Mrs. Philips exited a beat up pickup truck. 

She cooed something to the driver and shut the door, but the man didn't drive away. She turned to Trevor, or Michael thought, turned _on_ him would be more appropriate, she was like some large predator going in for the kill. Michael shuddered. 

"Back are you?" she snarled. "What the hell took you so long? I have been in excruciating pain, is this how you treat your mother?" 

"No! Ma, we got the truck-" 

"Of course you did, what do you think I am, Trevor? _Stupid?"_

"No! Of course not-" 

"Yes you do, or else you would have written me. But you thought you could get away with that. You always were stupid." 

"Ma! Forgive me! Trevor made a beeline for her and wrapped his arms around her waist from where he had dropped to his knees. It should have been funny, but Michael couldn't help but feel a little sick watching it. Christ. No one should be treated like that, least of all by their own mother. 

She impatiently she shoved him off. "Well, where is it?" 

Trevor picked himself up with ease and rushed over to the garage. "In here, ma." Mrs. Philips motioned to the driver of the pickup and he moved it around to where Trevor was standing. Michael trotted down the stairs, and watched as Trevor hauled up the garage door. 

"It's full of _holes!"_ She smacked Trevor upside the head hard enough he yelped. "You brought me hot merchandise? What the hell is wrong with you?" She gestured to the man to start unloading the van. 

"It took me forever to find this truck, Ma. I didn't know the LSPD were watching it." 

"If you had half a brain you would've. Stupid, _worthless_ child." 

Okay, Michael really couldn't take anymore of this. "It's actually my fault," he said. 

Mrs. Philips turned to him, hawk eyes narrowed. "What?" 

"I'm the one who found the truck." 

"You look familiar," she said ignoring the previous statement and stepping closer. Michael was silent, face fixed in frown. 

"He's an old friend-" Trevor started when Mrs. Philips turned back to him. 

"Shut up and help him unload the stuff." She gave Michael a smile that chilled him. "You aren't the one my boy brought back for me, are you?" 

"What?" 

She started walking around him, jewelry clinking softly. "Hmm, well I suppose he did _one_ thing right. A rare occurrence that it is. Oh dear, what's this?" She gently touched the side of his head where the blood was matted in his hair. 

Michael looked to Trevor, confusion written on his features, but Trevor was staring at his mom, frown forming on his face, frozen mid-way between the garage and the pickup. Then she suddenly grabbed a handful of Michael's ass and he jumped, swearing. What the _fuck?!_ He turned and Mrs. Philips was wearing a smirk, one that, frighteningly, looked exactly like Trevor's. 

"A little coy, are we?" 

Jesus, was he sexual toy to every fucking Philips? He scooted out of her reach. "If coy means that I don't appreciate being randomly groped, then yes." 

She chuckled and stepped closer. Michael backed away and decided that being cornered by two Philips in one day was way, too fucking much for his sanity to handle. Jesus fuck. He backed right into Trevor, and sighed. He was trapped. Trevor's hands wrapped around his arms, holding him in place. 

"Back _off,"_ Trevor growled. 

She raised her eyebrows in surprise at the tone. She stared at Trevor for a long moment before a smile twisted her mouth. "Oh, this is Michael, isn't it? Thought you looked familiar, though you are a little less dead then I thought." She laughed and patted Michael's cheek. Then she hit Trevor's arm, "And don't talk to your mother that way. Help him finish, Trevor." 

"Yes, ma." Trevor let Michael go and Michael stared after them in mild shock. 

It didn't take them long to finish loading the boxes in the pickup, when they had were done, they threw tarp over the load. 

Mrs. Philips turned to Michael. "Be nice to my boy, you hear? He may be ungrateful little gutter snipe, but he's mine and I won't tolerate anyone fucking with him." A wicked grin appeared on her face. "Just plain fucking on the other hand..." 

"Ma!" Trevor shouted and Michael gaped rather unattractively at her. He wondered if there was a hole to crawl into somewhere. 

She cackled and hopped in the pickup truck. "And Trevor?" 

He scrambled over to the truck, she shoved a scrap of paper in his hand. 

"Don't _fucking_ forget to write this time!" Her face softened for a moment and she patted his cheek. Then they rolled out of the driveway and the pickup gunned it down the street. Trevor watched them leave with a stunned look on his face. Michael breathed a sigh of relief, he was glad that was over. 

Trevor's gaze landed on him and Michael smiled, survival was a good feeling. Trevor stalked toward him, eye blazing and Michael's smile faltered a little. 

"T?" 

Trevor grabbed his shirt and hauled Michael tight against him. Michael wondered if they were going to have a fight (or fuck again, because he really couldn't tell with Trevor), and he was ready with a sharp retort and hands that were curling into fists when Trevor's mouth attacked him. 

For a moment, Michael was stunned, and Trevor took full advantage of it, plunging his tongue in his mouth. Michael groaned, and wondered what the hell was wrong with him because this ungraceful ravaging was turning him on. He didn't even have time to decide what to do with his hands or do much more than angle his head when Trevor pulled back with a grin and a exaggerated smacking of his lips. 

Michael was dizzy in way that had less to do with his head injury and more do with being well on his way to half-hard. Trevor grunted in appreciation and let go of his shirt. Then he was gone, striding out to the street, yelling for Ron. Michael stood there dazedly as he watched him walk away. 

\- - - - 

Trevor was slouched low in one of two sun-bleached chairs he drug out to the edge of the street in front of his trailer. A half gone bottle of beer clasped in two fingers as he lazily gazed at the stars. He had missed that, couldn't see shit from Los Santos, he could barely breathe in that fucking city. He was wearing a self-satisfied smirk because he had spent most the evening making plans with Ron to truly screw over those Merryweather fucks once and for all. 

Merryweather spent the last few weeks salvaging the guns that hit the drink and had a few more shipments come in to replace the ones they'd lost. The best part was, that since losing most of their government contracts, they've been holding the guns off Fort Zancudo at the abandoned O'Neil farm. The farm would be easy pickings and with the right crew. 

Those assholes had been prowling around that area, hopped up on 'roids and self righteousness, and put a dent in Oscar's business and subsequently Trevor's profits. But he could take those guns and sell them to Oscar, making back all the money he'd lost, and then some, from their cock blocking of his airfield. 

Tomorrow he'd have Michael guilt the shit out of Lester for his bad intell and have the cripple's services at a healthy discount. He'd call Franklin and Chef to help out, and there would be a large fucking explosion. He chuckled darkly to himself, it was going to be fan-fucking-tastic. 

Behind him, Trevor heard the door to the trailer open and close. He lifted his bottle and said, "Over here, Mikey." 

"Jesus, it's fucking dark out, what time is it?" Michael asked, his voice rough with sleep. He stumbled through the dark, the light of Ron's trailer the only outside light to go by. 

Trevor shrugged, but in the dark Michael couldn't see it. "Late. Does it matter?"

Michael sunk into the other chair and shivered just a little, rubbing his arms. "Why are you out here?" 

Trevor handed him a beer. "Planning, star gazing, _and_ Ron was starting to annoy me." 

Michael accepted it and popped the top on the edge of the chair's arm rest. "You star gaze?" he asked, a note of incredulity in his tone. "Will the wonders ever cease?"

"I hope not, Mikey, I hope not,” Trevor replied, deciding against a crass remark. He was in a good mood and didn't feel like yanking Michael's chain. He wondered briefly if he was getting soft. “Life would be pretty fucking dull otherwise." 

Michael clinked his beer with Trevor's. "Yeah, you got that right." 

They sat in silence for a while, admiring the stars, listening to the light traffic on the highway in the distance. 

"This is actually not bad." Michael said, voice low. "Been a long time since I bothered to look at the stars." 

"Not that you can see them from _Los Puta._ " 

He heard Michael grin. "True." Michael took a long pull from his beer. "You said you were planning, planning what?" 

Trevor grinned lazily at him. "Merryweather, guns, and a giant fucking explosion." 

"Oh for fuckssakes, T..." Michael groaned, and gave him a look. Trevor's grin only got wider. 

"Stop looking at me like I shaved a bunch of apes and tried to pass them off as babies, Mikey." 

Michael laughed as the stars blazed in the night sky around them. 


End file.
